


Pouring

by ProspertheXVIII



Category: The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6758257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProspertheXVIII/pseuds/ProspertheXVIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain had its connotations; connotations it had finished up with under circumstances that Bernadette didn't care at all to remember. And for this reason, she absolutely hated it. (Two parter: Bernadette during the days of Les Girls; and the aftermath of Coober Pedy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sydney

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as though I am perhaps too devoted to the phrase 'kill your darlings'. I seem to be hellbent on entirely fucking up the lives of every character in anything that I like. Oh well. I haven't the faintest clue where this idea came from, but I like it.
> 
> Matured for use of transphobic slurs, and general violence.

It had been raining. Bernadette liked the rain. At some point during the show, it seemed that the heavens had opened, leaving Sydney and the bulk of its inhabitants wringing wet - but she couldn't say that this was necessarily a bad thing. It was four past midnight; in spite of the time of night, the streets were next-to deserted on account of the adverse weather conditions. Even in spite of the rain, this was the kind of evening that Bernadette relished. Some nights, when the streets bustled with boozed-up mongrels ready to pick fights with anyone who so much as looked at them the wrong way, she could scarcely stand to trudge her way back to her apartment; typically with her head down, and her hand in her pocket; her keys clasped in a fist, held sticking out from between her fingers like knives. But as the rain hammered against the windows - staccato and almost soothing to her, - the avenues lay empty. Emptiness meant an undisrupted walk home.

Bernadette mulled this over as she stood just outside the exit to the club, putting up her umbrella; an unlit cigarette between her teeth and lighter in one gloved hand. Rain calmed her; rain signified safety. Because no imbecile in their right mind was going to stand about getting soaked just for the sake of harassing her, or...worse.

In the past for her, that 'worse' had been a pair of fat lips, and a violet necklace of bruises that had stuck around for almost a fortnight. But she had heard horror stories from the rest of the company; stabbings and muggings; chunks of glass from smashed bottles embedded in scalps; missing teeth; out-of-joint noses; broken bones. And those tales came from the men; Bernadette fell into the exceptionally small Venn diagram cross-section involving being both transgender, and a drag queen. This merciless brutality the others spoke of...they'd all been in costume; in character.

The truth was that the Bernadette Bassenger she played on stage was a far different woman to the one who existed in real life - but they were still one in the same person; and there wasn't a costume involved when real Bernadette stepped out into the world; long hair, makeup, jewellery, high heels, and all. And she couldn't very well take off her skin to conceal what had gotten the others into trouble. Womanhood to her wasn't a performance art as it was for her colleagues - it was her state of being; and she had the debt and the surgical scars to prove it. Thanks to people's small-mindedness and thinking with their fists rather than their brains, walking around at night made her antsy; even if her flat was a hop, skip, and a jump away from the club, and the street was deserted.

She lit her cigarette as she finally braved the downpour and stepped from the stoop outside the back entrance to the club; taking a drag, and blowing a cloud of smoke out in front of her face, watching it dissipate into nothing. Walking away, the ground still felt almost foreign beneath her feet; no wonder, given that less than fifteen minutes ago, she'd been suspended some twenty feet above it.

Apparently these days, female impersonation also required one to be part acrobat, circus act, and gymnast, alongside vaudeville performer; wirework, of all the other nonsense pertaining to stunts, tightropes, and all the rest of it, was quite possibly her favourite gimmick; and it was one usually reserved for her, too; she was the only one among the troupe of around twenty that possessed the right breed of insanity to be able to pull it off.

The routine which she'd just finished performing, set to Madonna's  _Like a Prayer_ , was a personal favourite of hers; almost more burlesque than it was drag in the traditional sense - sensual, and almost sacrilegious if you were to squint. Gracing the smoke-drowned stage initially in a dress of yards of black lace, she was cast into the air via the harness at her hips as the first chorus began, staying there for the remainder of the number; upon each verse, more and more of her outfit found its way into the audience until she was clad in little else but a duplicate of the black slip Madonna had donned in the song's video. It was apparently quite something to watch; certainly quite something to perform. She adored the act; she adored the song; she adored the sensation of flying, and the astonishing feeling of sexiness that came over her whilst she performed. She hadn't wanted it to end.

But alas, it had. The song was finished; the show was over - or at least her part was; and she was left to wander home by herself. It was an astounding thing really; a grown woman of thirty-four petrified of the dark, and of what lurked in it.  _Oh, get a grip, Bernadette_ , she mentally snapped at herself; walking down the empty pavement; umbrella over her head, and fag hanging nonchalantly from the corner of her mouth. Smoking to her was less of a need for some sort of fix, and more of a fashion statement if she was being honest. She still wore a full face of makeup; her hair loose to her shoulders, flat and a touch frizzy from her wig cap - opportunistic, she'd scarpered whilst it was quiet rather than hanging around to remove the garishness of the show from her face and fix her locks, then lounge around the backstage dressing room with the other girls like overfed housecats; drinking, smoking, and bitching. That was all a part of the lifestyle, naturally, and generally she enjoyed it, but tonight was different. She didn't know why, but the immediate urge of  _just go home_  had struck her wheon she heard the rain, and her mind had been made up there and then.

The streetlamps bathed the path in a dull orange glow; the lights that adorned the sign outside of the club reflecting garishly pink and blue in the rainwater on the ground. Walking past, in the small, quick strides of wearing heels, she took a quick glance at the exterior of the building; seeing herself on posters was still weird. But nonetheless, there she was; in the centre of a throng of queens, gazing off to one side with her hand on her hip, in a dress of black sequins with evening gloves up to her elbows; ' _Les Girls_ ', the spread proclaimed. ' _World-renowned cabaret. Starring Miss Bernadette Bassenger_ '.

She didn't linger. She was by now cold and wet, her cig smoked down to the filter; and besides, the bottle of rosé in her fridge was calling to her. The sooner she got home, the better. She had once again adopted her usual stance; head bowed, chin virtually on her chest, with one hand in the pocket of her trench coat, clenched in a white-knuckled fist around her keys - set to weaponise them if she so needed. Doubtful, but by now it was a force of habit.

At best, she was a block away from her complex when she encountered the first - and only - individual of her entire commute. If there was one thing she had never understood about men - besides the issue that they inexplicably all had with stepping out of the way if someone was coming towards them - it was catcalling. What on earth was that intended to achieve? He was around six paces behind her; drunk as a skunk - that wasn't even up for debate. He was probably equivalent to three and a half of her sellotaped together; slight though she was, she was almost dead on six feet tall, and he had a good head on her. The comments had been juvenile - remarking about her ass, asking her to go home with him; the usual prattle. She continued to walk, unfazed - not even willing to dignify his crap with a response, or even turn her head. That was when the abuse kicked off - frigid bitch who can't take a complement, so on and so forth. She rolled her eyes; her grip tightening on the keys regardless.

"Oi! I'm talking to you, you stupid cunt," he grabbed her by the shoulder, and she whipped round, her sodden hair smacking her across the face. His grip on her arm was like a vice; horrifyingly tight, and unwavering even as she tried to break herself away from him. She let go of the keys, her legs turning almost to jelly; grasping hold of his hand and pulling his fingers back; digging her false nails as hard as he could into his meaty fingers.

"Please get off of me," she drawled, deadpan as he scowled at her. She smiled as she took note of his bulldog-chewing-a-wasp expression, pert and pretty as she could muster; even in spite of the fact she was shitting her pants. It took her a while to notice how his expression was convulsing into something of disgust; taking note of her makeup, and most probably her other insecurities that she knew for a fact made her look more masculine than she really cared for; her height, for one; jawline; hands; voice...she wasn't sure what did it, but she watched something within him snap as he glared at her, drinking in her details. His eyes widened in a strange sort of horror, and his grip loosened; she flinched away, her heart thumping in her chest. She was a deer in headlights; too afraid to run, but completely aware that there would be consequences if she were to just stand there. She tried to move, but some useless, subconscious part of her brain refused to allow her; she could only watch with mounting fear as he clenched a fist, practically foaming at the mouth.

"You fuckin'  _freak_!" The punch landed square between her eyes; knocking her flying and stunning her somewhat. She tried to bring herself up from the collapsed heap on the sodden ground where she lay; her head swimming and vision hazy. He grabbed her by the front of the jacket; her legs still refusing to cooperate, she was limp in his grip - the pain in her forehead white-hot, and her face ominously warm and wet.

"Well, I suppose that fuck's now out of the question?" She stumbled her way through the sentence, chewing her words and stammering. The wind was knocked from her as he slammed her body against the wall to their left; she doubled over, spluttering.

"You wanna fuck with me, Little Miss Showgirl?" He spoke through gritted teeth; his face ruddy. He must've been around forty; dark brown hair slightly receding, plastered to his head with the rain. "What the fuck are you?" She knew exactly what he had meant in spite of the vagueness, and his blunt cruelty made her feel sick to her stomach. "Tranny," he spat at her viciously; literally spat - she cringed as his saliva smattered her face. Another punch came; this one hitting her in the side of the nose as she flinched away from him. She heard the crunch - felt it, as scarlet sprayed from her nostrils in a foam. He dropped her to the floor, and she crumpled against the bricks; head lolling like a ragdoll's as she dripped blood, snot, and cartilage into her lap; legs akimbo, her stiletto-clad feet angled inwards. She could barely think; lest of all call for help, or get up and start running. "You disgusting bitch...you fuckin tricked me!"

"I didn't ask you to pass comment on my arse, sir," her voice was gravelly; only just audible. "You started it."

"She-male," he howled at her, enraged that she was still daring to defy him; in all honesty, her mouth had just started talking without her thinking about what was coming out of it. Before she'd even managed to acknowledge what was happening, his boot had collided with her chest; a sharp burst of agony erupted at the base of her sternum, doubling her over as she lay on the ground. Her breath was coming in hollow, sporadic bursts; irregular, and intensely painful. Each inhalation hurt, if at all possible, more than the last.

She convulsed with utter disgust as he straddled her waist on his knees; panicking as she was uncertain of what he intended to do, she clenched her legs as hard together as they'd go. Her face hurt like hell; blood dripping off it from unknown places - her torso worse. The only bone she had ever broken in her life had been a finger at the tender age of four and a half; thirty years ago, so evidently she couldn't remember the specifics of the pain, but in spite of this, she was willing to bet her bottom dollar that at least one of her ribs was fractured. Her nose too - that concerned her more. Broken ribs could be hidden with ease beneath clothing; but makeup and clever lighting could only do so much for a beak.

Her worrying about her battered exterior had culminated in nothing besides her dropping her guard; another punch, square in the jaw; swiftly followed by a fourth to the mouth. Tears streamed involuntarily from her eyes as her lips were slammed into her incisors; she turned her head, spitting out a mouthful of claret -  _yet more fucking blood_  - and what both looked and felt ominously like fragments of her teeth. He was spewing puce curses still, but they were going straight over her head - sounds, not articulate words. If they were, she couldn't make them out. Maybe she was concussed - who knew? Her jaw was probably broken too now. Another hit connected with her temple - that pain was phenomenal; her head felt almost as though it was about to burst, as the force slammed her face against the tarmac, grazing her cheek. He had a ring on; some dirty great chunk of ostentatious rock that was taking chunks of her face with it as he collided with her. His hands were bright red; he looked as though he had been gutting an animal.

She wasn't fighting back any more; she had no words, and no fight left to put up. Only meek whimpers and involuntary flinches. She didn't feel like herself any more - it was almost as though she was watching it happen; aware of what was going on, but not reacting to it. She was zoning out; probably verging on unconsciousness. Another hit had come on her décolletage, jarring into her collarbone; she cried out a little as she felt that snap too - a little had been all she was able to manage.

Her nameless attacker finally stood up; the words still flying in a vicious babble. She found herself sighing heavily although it hurt her ribs; it was  _over_. At last it was over; she could drag herself home; clean her face, and ice her injuries - though she doubted there were enough bags of frozen peas in the world to sufficiently accomplish this - and get herself checked out by a professional in the morning. Of course there was the issue of work, but that bridge was to be crossed when it was reached. She scrambled frantically, trying to stand up or even drag herself forward...but her new friend had entirely other plans for her.

It was a kick to the head that put her out; one collision between her cranium and the steel toecap of his boot had been what it eventually took. She felt that gut-wrenching burst once again...and then black. Endless, noiseless black.  
  


______________________________________________

 

The backstage dressing room of Les Girls was utter chaos. Feathery, glitzy, obnoxiously loud chaos. Once a show was done for the night, the bunch of them were prone to laying around until all hours of the morning doing fuck all - talking conquests and costumes whilst the daiquiris flowed. It was a good atmosphere; safe and homey as total disarray could possibly feel. And as Bernadette came to in the gutter, the first thing she did was query why on earth she had chosen to leave that safety net in favour of getting home without encountering any people. If she had only hung around for another twenty minutes, perhaps - maybe even ten; maybe if she had admired the poster for a little longer, or smoked her cigarette under the covered exit (or better yet, inside) - she wouldn't be where she was.

Her hair was soaked; clinging to her face and neck in tiny snakes - tendrils stained red in places up to the roots with blood. The majority of her makeup had been washed away; raccoon rings of mascara beneath her eyes being all that really remained. Her lashes were stuck together in clumps with blood - the stuff was drying at the corners of her mouth; still dripping steadily from her nose; staining her fawn coat unpleasant shades of red and brown - it was fucking everywhere. She felt as though somebody had dropped an anvil onto her head; her chest was tight, as though somebody was sitting on it - and each and every breath she took pained her. She could scarcely stand to move her left arm thanks to her injured clavicle. Her entire body felt like a bruise - aching beyond belief, and almost unable to function.

Alone. She was totally and utterly alone; and the aloneness was inescapable; between the chill of the August night air, and the drenched clothes clinging to her trembling form - she looked as though she had taken a shower whilst fully dressed - she could well die where she was lying. She couldn't stand; she could barely speak - she could barely even breathe, in fact. Crying was at this point about all that she physically could do. Curled in on herself - umbrella gone - fuck knows where that had ended up; one shoe missing - about a metre away from her right foot; and her face a bloodied mess, - she couldn't even resist the silent sobs which wracked her body she had so little energy. It was pathetic, but then again  _she_  was pathetic. She'd let some shithead beat her senseless with no attempt at retort or escape besides a few bitchy remarks and the odd screech -  _how very useful of your, Bernice_. She cursed herself internally; if only she'd waited. If only she'd ran. If only she had kicked him, or spat at him, or fought back. There were so many 'if onlys' and 'what ifs' that her head spun; all she knew was her regret, and her anger at everything she had done, or rather hadn't done. She just lay in the centre of this mess that she had made of herself; unable to move, shedding her tears of self-pity on the ground as the sky continued to rain on her.

It was still raining. Bernadette  _hated_  the fucking rain...


	2. Coober Pedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote part one with the intention of connecting it to a scene like this; I wanted to think about some context to Bernadette's sudden sympathy for Adam; how she went from 'fuck off, you little faggot' to...well, the events of this scene in the film in about a week. I don't know - I just wrote it, and I like it.

It was raining. Bernadette didn't care for the rain. Coober Pedy, in all its harsh, unforgiving backwardness, had been reduced in a matter of minutes to a spit of red slop in the middle of the outback - the downpour hammering at the windows, having come on suddenly. The entire evening had been sudden; a sudden attack on her mind and senses, between the antics of Felicia - the younger queen lay in a snivelling heap in the bed beside her own, - and the imminent culture shock (Sydney had its downsides, but was still very...liberal; Broken Hill had been a little worse, but at least they'd been moderately civilised - at least they'd  _pretended_  not to hate them; Coober Pedy...as Bob had said, the lot of them were down a hole blowing shit up from first thing in the morning to last thing at night, and it showed. In their intolerance and their violence, dear god it  _showed_.)

Tick, in his anger, had trudged back to the bus with the intention of sleeping there, alongside Bob; as he'd said, he simply couldn't stand the sight of Adam at that moment. Really, he had every right to be angry. The stupid little bastard had snorted Colombia off of the map judging by the size of his pupils; only to strut out, dolled up to the nines and acting like a bitch in heat, and...well, the rest was history, wasn't it? Any queen in her right mind was never about to dress up, strut out loaded up on drugs into a tiny shit-smear of a town and expect a warm welcome. But then again, Felicia had no common sense, and Bernadette very much doubted any mind of which to speak, lest of all a right one. 

This had left her to deal with Adam by herself, initially to her unending chagrin. She had no use for brainless little twinks like him - she never had and she doubted that she ever would. He was the embodiment of that aggressive homosexuality that the great unwashed most feared - and in so doing he and those like him made life unnecessarily more difficult than it already was for those like her. They - or rather, he - had no respect for the future, or the potential consequences of his actions; and worse, no respect for the past, and those who had suffered and toiled to gift him with that very life he now treated so recklessly. And really, he brought this entire nasty mess down on his own head - Tick was right about that.  
  
But that didn't change anything, and begrudgingly, she had accepted her role of surrogate mother - coaxing him into the shower; wiping away his makeup; investigating the state of his face, and confirming that she was quite sure he hadn't broken anything; trying her level best to comfort him...it had introduced her to a side of him that existed beneath the fieriness and campiness and annoying little habits; someone scared, and clueless, and unsure of what exactly he had gotten himself into. Someone who reminded Bernadette a lot of a person she had used to know.

A person by name of Ralph, to be precise.

She remembered the days when that name had still been hers- she couldn't have been much older than seventeen or eighteen; and the night had been much like this one. She'd stumbled out into a foreign place dressed up like sex on legs, and then had to deal with the consequences much as Adam was doing now. After that had happened, she got smarter; if she could avoid it, she went nowhere in drag, and during the early stages of her transition, nowhere alone either. She kept her head down, and her mouth shut, and her keys like knuckledusters between her clenched fingers. That night in Sydney had been a freak accident - brought about by her forgetting her rules, and dropping her guard...and of course by the dickhead who had actually beaten her up.

Felicia had told her he was going to sleep, but in spite of his attempts at hushing himself, she could hear him crying regardless. Bernadette had practically thrown herself down onto her bed - still in the same outfit as she had worn to dinner, her makeup smudged and hair in disarray. The sound of the rain, which once upon a time had signalled a calm in the chaos for her, now only made her anxious. It had connotations; fourteen years on, and she still wasn't quite able to let the past go. It was hard - she wanted to purge herself of the memory entirely, but that would never happen. She still saw him in dreams on occasion; waking up with her pyjamas sticking to her with a cold sweat - often terrified; sure that she was back where she had started, soaked and suffering in the gutter.

The injuries had been cataclysmic, and the recovery period awful; she'd had her collarbone broken in two places; her jaw in three. Four cracked ribs; one fractured, and a collapsed right lung. She'd had a crack in her skull running from her temple to her crown, and an enormous concussion to boot; twelve stitches and eight staples in her head and face. Ah fuck, her face had been in such a state that she'd scarcely been able to stand the appearance of her own reflection until she'd gotten her nose job about two months later; she'd needed seven teeth capped; and six screws in her clavicle. She has planned to retire completely after that incident; she'd handed in her notice to Les Girls, but within about a year she'd gotten bored of not doing anything, with herself, and she itched to perform again - even if not quite in the same extreme way as before. Eventually, after a stream of shitty dive bars and such, she had stumbled upon the Imperial, and thus upon Tick, - recently having left this wife he spoke of if her calculations were right - and later Adam. Truthfully, if what had happened hadn't actually happened, she wouldn't be where she was, but she didn't know that this was a good thing.

She felt her stomach twist with guilt as she stared at Adam lying beneath the covers; a trembling, whimpering heap. After these things happen, it is usually so that there's little else to do but cry. You cry for a lot of things - the pain; self-pity; anger; sorrow; worry (because face it, when your career lies in performance, having a presentable face is important) - it was just unavoidable. If only she had made him come with her and Tick; if only she'd gotten there sooner; if only she had stopped Tick from being so harsh on him. The 'if onlys' were flying around again, and she cringed.

But then again, what if she hadn't noticed him running past? What if she hadn't arrived when she had? While it felt bad to sit and watch him cry, the crux of the matter was that if she hadn't done what she had done when she'd done it, they wouldn't have him reasonably in once piece in the safety of the hotel room behind a locked door; they'd only have found his corpse in that junkyard the next morning.

"Bernadette?" The pile of blankets adjacent to her own bed spoke; a weak, tear-thickened whinge. She rolled her eyes; taking out her earrings and abandoning them on the nightstand. He grew impatient waiting for the answer that never came, and spoke again - sharper, and more insistent. "Bernadette?"

"Go to sleep, Adam," she groaned, pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it into the corner of the room in a ball; she'd deal with that later, but night now she wanted sleep. Only problem being Adam barring her from it.

"Bernie-"

"Go to fucking  _sleep_! After almost getting yourself spread against a garage door an hour ago, I've not got all that much patience for you."

"Bernadette, please," he still hasn't shown himself; still hunched under the duvet like a child.

"Okay, fine. What is it?"

"Thank you," he sniffled; still hiding from her. He had experienced the full force of her anger before, but he'd dealt with it snarkily and without much seriousness or taking it to heart. But tonight was different. He had no real business sassing her when she'd literally just saved his life. She grimaced at him; he was never this quiet; this fucking  _still_. Even in sleep he was restless; a quicksilver bundle of energy that knew no end. It seemed wrong to see him as subdued as he was; and with such a civil tongue in his head. She half-expected - almost wished - he would look up, give her that over-broad sneer and say, "Fuck off,  _Ralph_." Purely as that'd be more in-character. 

"What was I supposed to do? Stand there and watch that boozed-up lump of testosterone castrate you? It's basic human decency, Adam - don't bother thanking me," she sighed, kicking her shoes off.

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts. Sleep. You need it," she shot him a look; his head was sticking out from beneath the pile of sheets like a tortoise, his lip swollen and jaw bruising already. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot; face damp. The feeling that came over her was almost maternal - even although he had been giving her hell for everything he could possibly give her hell for for the last week and a half, she felt for him. Maybe it was a sense of knowing what he was experiencing; the conflicting feelings, and the hurt. Maybe it was just her own projecting; trying to give him the help that she'd never gotten - even if that meant it was given in her tough-love, brusque manner. She didn't know. But whatever it was, it was there regardless of whether she understood it or not, and she couldn't shake it. She gave a weak smile, pulling back the duvet from her own bed and climbing in, still donning little else but her trousers and bra. She had pyjamas with her - they'd lugged their cases out of the bus - but no part of her could be arsed digging them out. She wanted sleep - she wanted this nightmare of a day to be over - and she wanted it now. "Trust me; you'll thank me for it later. Let's just put what happened today to bed for the rest of the night - let you sober up. Get your head straight. You can deal with the consequences in the morning." Adam made a soft noise of acknowledgement; Bernadette laying down with her hands behind her head, letting out a heavy sigh. There was a scar to her shoulder - old enough to have faded, but still so long and deep that it was visible quite clearly nonetheless; a raised white line scoring the centre of her collarbone. She was more than a touch self-conscious about this; just another insecurity for her to worry about - something else for people to ask her irritating questions on, and to bother her when she looked in the mirror. At least it wasn't on her face. But counting one's blessings only goes so far, and the fact of the matter was that she detested it.

Ah well. You live and learn. Adam's breathing had grown less shallow and sporadic; she was wont to assume that he was now asleep. Thank heavens for that. However, sleep wasn't coming to her, and that was annoying her. She was too antsy; somewhat in shock regarding the evening's events, and struggling a little to cope as the memories resurfaced in waves of that hideous night in August fourteen years ago. There was diazepam on Priscilla, but she wasn't about to get up to go and get it; Tick would ask for context, and Bob - oh dear god, Bob...there was no part of her willing to admit anything to either of them. Tick knew a few sketchy details from drunken conversations at stupid o'clock in the morning years ago - or at least he'd been told them; whether or not he remembered anything was another matter entirely. But Bob was aware of next-to nothing; having met him a mere few days ago, her fondness for him was overwhelming, and the last thing that he needed after the abysmal last forty-eight hours was her emotional baggage.

She squirmed around in an attempt at getting comfortable; alongside the horrendous decor and barely-functional bathroom, the beds in that place were fucking awful. They'd have been better off staying on the road, on all counts. Then Adam wouldn't be shaken up and swollen-faced, and Tick wouldn't be fuming at him; Bob's relationship with his mates wouldn't be in pieces; and Bernadette would have been able to get a decent night of sleep, both because her bed on Priscilla was a hell of a lot more comfortable than this thing, and because the rancid memories of that night outside of the club that had been home to Les Girls wouldn't have resurfaced.

She was still very...nervy, for want of another word, after that whole incident, loathe as she was to confess to it. Mind you, a week in the hospital, and a laundry list of broken bones was enough to do that to anybody. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, just wondering what part of her the  _balls_  (if you'll pardon the pun) to do what she had done earlier had come from. She didn't like to overthink things - overthinking was impractical; all it did was make you weep for the past and fear for the future - but she was stuck.

She worried a lot. A lot about strangers, for one; about what conducting herself wrongly around other people could do, or about letting her guard drop. But a lot about herself; she had never used to be this way that she was; uneasy, and snarky, and bitchy, and...Bernadette. It had all been a knock-on effect from that one night. And the worrying thing was that she had started to notice it rub off on others; as Tick had lost his shit with Adam earlier, all she could think was that she saw  _herself_  in him, and not in a good way. Knowing her had changed him; she was unwilling to admit it, but it was the god-honest truth. Once upon a time he had been a lot more mellow; whilst exceptional circumstances surrounding this wife he had stashed away out in the sticks had something to do with it, that sort of outburst would have never been seen from the Antony Belrose she had met seven years ago.  
  
When they had met, Tick had been a strange soul; caught between drag, and...something else. That something else presumably being this wife he spoke of. Between a frock and a hard place - ha. What she had said had been true; she had been desperate at one point in her life for children, so much so that it had almost torn her to shreds. And just as that void in her life had been at its most gaping and painful, a young and nervy Antony had stumbled into it and involuntarily filled it. She was, for all intents and purposes, his drag mother; a good amount of what he knew had been from her days of infamy treading the boards in showgirl regalia alongside Les Girls. He had been star-struck, and she lonely; they had latched onto each other. Mitzi Del Bra had been her glorious little creation, and she took pride in that.  
  
However, that hideous, hardened  _front_  that she spent her life putting up - the metaphorical equivalent to her weaponised keys; that emotional safety net - along with her anger, and her mistrust for the world that had come along with living as she had lived, - chiefly that god-awful night spent bleeding on the pavement in Sydney all that time ago - had been imparted to him alongside her knowledge of eyeliner and fashion. That worried her. It also made her kick herself in frustration and anger; it was all  _her_. She let her negativity brush off onto other people, and it wasn't pleasant. She felt fucking wretched, lying there with her brain trapped in a cycle; caught between self-sympathy, anger, - desperation to go and speak to Tick, but lack of willingness to risk aggravating the situation; wishing to turn back the clock and stop this from happening to Adam - to stop what had happened in Sydney happening to  _herself_...

She was desperate to shut her brain up, and go to fucking sleep. But that wasn't happening. She could only lie there staring at the ceiling as tears pricked at her eyes, her stomach tying itself in knots and her thoughts a vicious mess; listening to the steady, insistent patter of the rain on the roof.

She  _really_  didn't like the rain.


End file.
